


Yeah, Safe Haven, My Ass

by knarcelestial



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Author regrets nothing, Floof, Fluff, Like seriously misunderstood everything, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sheriff Stilinski Disapproves, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Derek/Stiles Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sherriff POV, about like everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knarcelestial/pseuds/knarcelestial
Summary: And, yes. John would even go as far as to call his humble abode a haven. A safe haven.But, when he comes home only to hear Derek Hale’s voice in his son’s room— his underaged son’s room. Alone. In a previously empty house. Apparently not being able to get something inside of him— he's not so sure about it anymore.





	Yeah, Safe Haven, My Ass

 

 

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John Stilinski likes to think that he’s come to a point in his life where he can call himself a well-established man.

He’s got a respectable, honest job, with a son who’d- worryingly and, hopefully, only metaphorically- dive off of the deep end for him, alongside the pleasure of a comfortable home to come back to at the end of a grueling, dreadful day at the force.

And, yes. John would even go as far as to call his humble abode a haven. A safe haven that elicits in him the sort of security he’d had to distance from himself at a job where only a state of constant vigilance was acceptable.

So, needless to say, coming home from an eighteen hour shift at the station has him ready to hold a hand up to the crime-busting and wrap a hand around the blessful sheets in his double mattress bed that he plans to never wake up from ever again.

He unlocks and opens the front door to only have to groan and shield himself from the harsh lighting of the hallway blaring in his eyes. The sheriff mutters threats under his breath as he shuffles out of his shoes and up the stairs, “That kid better be asleep. It’s a goddamn school night, Jesus.”

He, unsurprisingly, makes out a sliver of light peeking from underneath Stiles’s door that refutes his previous hopes, “God, what is that kid doing up so late?”

John is about two seconds away from barging into his son’s room with a full on threatening ‘You have a bed time, and a bed time you have’ lecture brewing in the back of his head, when he comes to understand that the sounds he is hearing from his son’s room is not only that of his son’s but that of another person, as well… A male person… A male person that is definitely not in high school.

“Stiles, hold on.” He hears the person hiss, “I can’t get in it, fuck.”

And, suddenly, it’s like all of the misery, pain, and horror that John has ever come across at any crime scene at any point of his life until now completely blows out of the window. Because, that’s Hale’s voice.

That’s Derek Hale’s voice in his son’s room. His _underaged_ son’s room. Alone. In a previously empty house. Apparently not being able to _get something inside of him._

“Derek, come on, _please_.” And for what will forever be the everlasting source of John’s long, suffering nightmares, he hears his son let out a moan. A moan that, as the father of a seventeen year old child, John has never ever needed to hear. Ever. Ever. Never.

“Derek, you know how long I’ve been waiting for this. It can’t be that hard. So many people do this, Der. Come on.”

Oh, Derek better not be coming on Stiles at _all_.

And- fuck- why is John still standing _outside_ of the fucking door?!

He makes a move to grab at the handle and turn it for the tragic reveal when he hears something crash inside of the bedroom.

“God damn it, Stiles! I told you to hold still.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying. It’s just- your fingers are really cold.”

John wonders if any of the knives in their kitchen downstairs would do sufficient enough damage to his ears if he stabbed them enough times to forget what he just heard.

He hears his son let out a loud yelp, and then, “Derek, just put more of the liquid on your fingers! It’ll help put it in, Jesus.”

Derek lets out a small laugh, and replies, “I’ve already tried that before, Stiles. Maybe it’s like too big or something?”

“No. That’s stupid. I mean it’s big, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fit it inside. That just doesn’t happen, Derek.”

Derek sighs like he’s used to resigning to Stiles’s ways- which, okay, how much time did they have to secretly go behind John’s back that that sigh came out to be so natural- and Derek begrudgingly gives in, “Alright, fine. I’m going to try one more time. But, if it hurts, you have to tell me immediately, okay?”

There is a second of time, then, before Stiles’s response to that question, that John sees his life flash before his eyes.

“Okay. I promise.”

John tenses all over. And then, like the responsible, promising father that he is, wrenches the handle open, only to his utter terror realise that the door is _locked_.

Stiles _never_ locked the door.

John didn’t even know that Stiles’s door even _had_ a lock.

“Stiles! You open this door, right now, young man!”

John hears an unpleasant array of curse words spewing from his son’s mouth before he gets the traitorous response of, “Dad, oh my God! I thought you weren’t coming home until the morning!”

John scoffs, “Oh, yeah! I sure as hell bet you did, kid! Open this door up, or I’m busting it open!”

He hears the scraping of a chair, the scrambling of feet, and then the beautiful click of the lock turning.

John quickly sends up a quick thanks to his past self for making the sane decision to leave his revolver at the station, because, he would have committed first-degree murder had he had it on him, right now, and braces himself for the state of his son when he yanks the door open.

“Dad.”

“Stiles?” And the name comes out in the form of a question for a manifold of different reasons.

Firstly, Stiles is completely clothed- which even for his son, is a pretty impressive feat even after what’d he’d just been caught doing. Secondly, Stiles’s bed is made. Which, immediately, throws John to the conclusion that he should shoot Derek in the foot for attempting to deflower his son _not_ on a bed (though the Sheriff would prefer all activities non-deflowering, thank you) and rather on a chair.

John takes heavy steps into the room to confirm his third point. Derek Hale is also completely clothed. And from reasonable doubt, John knows that the Hale man didn’t move an inch from when Stiles had opened the door, which means that Four, Derek Hale was also completely clothed even before the Sheriff barged in.

Okay, so. He’s a cop, right? Evidence leads to facts which leads to resolving the case. And all evidence here points otherwise to what John presumed was happening. So, John is willing to give his son and the Hale kid the benefit of the doubt for the next five minutes to state their case before Hale’s ass ends up in a federal correctional facility cell in Milan.

“Okay, please tell me what I thought was happening was not happening?” He decides to begin.

Stiles frowns at him and sits tidily on his bed, “Well, what did you think was happening?” He asks in confusion.

John raises his eyebrows in disbelief, “Really, Stiles?” He looks back and forth between the two men before staring down his son.

He sighs and rubs both hands down his face, “‘I can’t get it in’?” He repeats, and when Stiles clearly doesn’t have a clue to what he’s saying, he continues, “‘You know how long I’ve been waiting for this’? ‘Hold still’? ‘Your fingers are really cold’? ‘Put liquid on your fingers. It’ll help put it in’?!”

Stiles’s eyes widen slowly as his brain pieces together everything that’s happening as his father pushes forward. His head whips to the werewolf who is most definitely looming in the corner, now, like a kicked puppy who’s just realised why his owner is yelling at him.

Derek is honest to God wringing his hands like he’s been caught red-handed in the act, which he wasn’t? So, what?

“Dad, Derek and I were not having sex!”

“No!” Derek protests.

What.

Both of the Stilinskis are now leveling promising death glares his direction and Derek shrinks into himself in a way that Stiles has barely ever seen him do before. If he’s being completely honest with himself, though, Stiles kind of thinks Derek looks fucking adorable at the moment, what with all the tail-between-his-legs expression he has going. And Stiles curses himself, because, _really_ not the best time to stare longingly at the man and declare his crush to an angry sheriff father who brings with him the promise of death to older aged, ex-convicted boyfriends.

“No?” Stiles asks, quizzically.

Derek shakes his head in horror, “No! I meant no, yes. As in no to agree with your statement. Not anything, otherwise?”

The sheepish grin that forms on Derek’s face gives Stiles the sort of boost he needs to get them out of this awful situation. He turns to his dad, and addresses him with dead seriousness, “Dad. Seriously, we weren’t having- or trying to have- sex up here, okay?”

John crosses his arms and shuffles his feet wider to give him his interrogatory cop look, “What were you trying to do, then? Make an audio porn-o.”

Stiles chokes on nothing, and Derek explodes with a red blush so fierce it spreads all the way along his neck and even further down into his green henley, “Dad!” Stiles splutters.

Derek interjects, “No, sir. We most definitely were not.”

Okay. So, Derek seems to have gotten some sense of control over himself. Good.

John raises both of his eyebrows ceiling-ward as if he’s summoning some higher power for strength, and reasons, “Okay. How about this. Tell me what you _were_ doing, and I might not have to put anybody-” To which he gives Derek a pointed look “-in jail tonight.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Dad! Derek was helping me put in my contacts!”

Out of _all_ of the scenarios John had managed to fabricate in the span of the past five minutes, _that_ scenario just didn’t even cut it close.

“What.” Because screw elementary punctuation. This situation warrants the utmost deadpanedness.

Stiles rolls his eyes and walks over to his desk where John, now, discerns an accumulative mess of contact solution, contact lenses, and contact cases laid out haphazardly across the surface.

Stiles moves his hands around slowly, trying to emphasize the point, “See? Does it make sense now?”

John stares at his son and pauses, before, “So the liquid?”

Stiles nods, “Contact solution.”

“And the cold fingers?”

“Derek’s. But, in my eyes.”

“And the holding still?”

“I’m a spastic, teenage man-child, getting his eyes poked at, what can you do?” He shrugs.

John considers this, and everything _does_ seem to make sense. He nods to himself, “Okay, yeah. I can believe this.” He looks suspiciously between the two of them to see if they might break under pressure and admit to something else, but neither of them seem to have much else to add to the matter.

John sighs, “Jesus Christ, kid. Why do you need help with getting contacts in your eyes?!”

Stiles flaps his hands around defensively and blurts, “You _know_ that I get all squirmy around bodily, anatomical things!” And wanes off at the end of that sentence, though, like he’s just starting to realise how stupid he’s sounding.

“Look, kid. It’s late. I don’t know why Derek, of all people, is here. But, it’s good to know I won’t be having nightmares for the rest of my life.” He points a finger at Derek, and says, in his best authoritative dad voice, “You. Get out.”

Derek nods obediently, and starts towards the window, when Stiles twists a hand in the back of his shirt and hauls him away from the glass, “Front door, Der.”

Derek nods, again. And slips out from behind the Sheriff, flinching a little when the older man makes a threatening gesture towards his empty holster as he passes.

Stiles sighs and rubs a hand down his face in a way that reminds the sheriff scarily of himself. His son flops down tiredly onto his bed and then onto his back.

“Lights out, Stiles. Seriously. You’re lucky I’m not grounding you for the rest of your teenage life.”

Stiles laughs weakly, “Love you too, Dad. Good night.”

The Sheriff makes to leave when he hears Derek’s voice from downstairs calling, “Babe! I think I left my phone upstairs!”

John rams his bare foot into the hard wood of Stiles’s door, “BABE?!”

He hears his son holler behind him, “Run! Derek, run!” And then the slamming of his front door shut.

Before he can even make it downstairs, he hears the roaring of an engine outside and the quick flash of a Camaro shooting out onto the street.

“Stiles!”

  
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**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments! :)


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